My first instinct is to punch his pretty face.
Or maybe I should let go and watch him faceplant.
But his knees buckle, and his body sags heavily against mine.
“Shut the fuck up.”I haul him upright, my face hot and hands clumsy.
I swear under my breath as I finish quickly, my clothes soaked through to my skin.But I can’t remove my shirt, not in front of anyone, especially him.
Once he’s rinsed, I drag him out, water dripping everywhere, and half-carry him back to the cot.
He’s unconscious before he hits the mattress.
A black duffel sits on the floor.I rummage through it, yanking out a pair of sweatpants, and manhandle his limp weight into them.My hands shake for no good reason, but I get the job done.
Just as I’m hauling the blanket over him, the door opens.
“Wolf?”Kody’s growly voice loosens the tension in my shoulders.
Frankie barrels in right behind, her sharp green eyes wide with worry.
When I fired off that text to the family, I wasn’t sure they’d actually come.As quickly as they arrived, they must’ve been nearby.Probably on the way to the hospital, given Frankie’s scrubs.
I don’t know why I bothered, but as I look down at Jag, his wet hair curling over his fever-flushed forehead, I guess I didn’t want him to die.
Not until I’ve played with him a bit more.
Drenched in sweat, I wake on the cot.My mouth tastes like rust and ash, and every muscle aches as if I’ve been pried apart with a crowbar.
Hell.
That’s where I am.
A dry groan scrapes out of me as I blink against the gummy seal of my eyelids.The world swims.Walls, ceiling… Movement.
I’m not alone.
A man sits nearby, long legs sprawled, arms folded, back propped against the wall like he has all the time in the world to stare at me.
Shaggy black hair falls over his forehead, and his eyes… Good God, his eyes are so black and bottomless, like two endless pits, pinning me in place.He’s a burly, broad-shouldered, living mountain in a fitted shirt.
Kodiak Strakh.
Beautiful and brutal all at once.Probably wrestled grizzlies in the Arctic.And if the glare he’s throwing me says anything, he’d wrestle me just for fun.
Why is he here?
The bathroom door creaks, and a smaller figure slips into view.Red hair drapes around porcelain shoulders.Eyes big and green as emeralds.Childlike, but not fragile.No.There’s steel under those nursing scrubs.
Frankie Strakh.
Monty’s wife.Kodiak’s and Leonid’s, too, if the rumors are to be believed.Sitka’s favorite scandal.
Gracefully, she moves toward me, and Kodiak instantly tenses.He growls low in his throat, a territorial touch-her-and-die growl.
She hushes him with a small sound and leans over me, pressing the back of her hand to my forehead.
“Your fever’s still high.”She withdraws her touch and backs away.“I gave you antibiotics.Keep resting.Drink water.And stop using your hand like your wrist isn’t broken.”
